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Chapter One

I n all her twenty years, Elizabeth Bennet had never experienced such an emotionally tumultuous journey as the one home to Longbourn after her sojourn in Kent. While she managed, somehow, to interact politely with the Gardiners during her brief visit to London, her mind wandered treacherously, continuously reviewing each revelation from Mr. Darcy’s letter with painful clarity. She finally arrived home outwardly composed but inwardly altered, greeting her family with the expected enthusiasm while keeping her newfound knowledge carefully concealed behind a smile that did not quite reach her eyes. Only Jane, with her particular sensitivity to Elizabeth’s moods, seemed to perceive that something significant was bothering her.

It was not until the night of their return home to Longbourn, when the sisters retired to their shared bedroom, that Jane finally addressed the matter directly. Having closed the door against the rest of the household, she turned to Elizabeth with an unusually determined expression on her beautiful face.

“Lizzy, you have been home these six hours and have not once been truly present with us!” Jane exclaimed. “Something happened in Kent that you are not speaking of, and I wish you would unburden yourself of it.”

Elizabeth, who had been brushing her hair with rather more vigour than necessary, paused mid-stroke. She had anticipated this conversation, knowing Jane’s perception too keen to be deceived by forced smiles and animated accounts of Charlotte’s domestic arrangements, but it had been impossible to talk privately thus far; in company with Maria Lucas and in the Gardiner’s busy household, there had been no opportunity for private speech.

“A great many things happened in Kent,” Elizabeth replied, attempting lightness. “None of which bear repeating at present.”

“I do not believe you,” Jane said with uncharacteristic firmness. “You have returned to us changed in some fundamental way. I have never known you to keep secrets from me, Lizzy.”

Elizabeth set the brush down with deliberate care and considered her sister. Jane’s gaze was steady, her usually yielding expression replaced by one of gentle determination. This was not the same sister who had accepted the Bingleys’ departure from Netherfield with resigned disappointment. Kent had changed Elizabeth; London had changed Jane.

“It is not my secret alone to keep,” Elizabeth finally admitted, moving to sit beside her sister. “I have learned things about certain parties that should not be shared indiscriminately.”

“Mr. Darcy?” Jane guessed, her voice dropping to a whisper despite the closed door.

“Yes,” Elizabeth acknowledged, “and others.”

She hesitated, weighing her obligation to protect Miss Darcy’s reputation against her desire to unburden herself to the one person she trusted implicitly. The letter from Mr. Darcy had spent the journey home folded against her heart, its revelations about Mr. Wickham burning in her mind like a fever.

“Jane, what would you do if you discovered someone of your acquaintance was not at all who they pretended to be?” Elizabeth asked carefully. “If you learned they had engaged in behaviour so reprehensible it might destroy an entire neighbourhood’s peace, yet you could not reveal your source without betraying a confidence?”

Jane’s blue eyes widened slightly, but she considered the question before responding.

“I suppose it would depend on the harm that might come from speaking or remaining silent,” she replied thoughtfully. “Is this person likely to cause further injury if their true nature remains concealed?”

Elizabeth felt something in her chest constrict. “Perhaps. They certainly have the opportunity,” she added, thinking of what Lydia had said of Wickham’s courtship of Mary King, thwarted by the girl’s uncle taking her away to Liverpool. Who would Wickham’s next target be?

“Then I think conscience would compel me to speak, though perhaps not to reveal all I knew,” Jane said. “This is about Mr. Wickham, is it not?”

The directness of the question startled Elizabeth, who had not expected such acuity even from Jane. “How did you…?”

“You’ve mentioned two people – Mr. Darcy, whom you have never liked, and an unnamed person who has deceived us all,” Jane explained with quiet logic. “Your expression when Lydia talked about Mr. Wickham at the inn was most revealing.”

“I have never been able to keep secrets from you, though I find this new ability of yours to pluck my thoughts directly from my head a little disturbing,” Elizabeth said with a rueful smile. “Yes, it concerns Mr. Wickham. I have learned things that make his continued presence in Meryton deeply concerning.”

Taking a deep breath, Elizabeth related what she had learned about Wickham’s true character; his gambling, his profligacy, his abandoned profession, and his mercenary designs. Finally, with an admonition that this secret must be kept forever, she told Jane that Mr. Wickham had attempted an elopement with Miss Darcy, with his designs on her dowry, the motive being also to revenge himself on Mr. Darcy. She watched Jane’s expression shift from dismay to shock to anger, and finally to a firm resolution that Elizabeth had never before seen in her gentle sister.

“She was only fifteen ? And you intended to keep this to yourself?“ Jane asked when Elizabeth had finished.

Elizabeth rose from the bed and paced to the window, gazing out at the darkened garden below. “I cannot reveal how I came by this information without betraying a confidence, and perhaps risking Miss Darcy’s reputation.”

“You need not reveal your source to warn others of his character,” Jane countered. “Consider, Lizzy – how fortunate was Miss King to be sent to Liverpool before her fortune could be squandered by such a man? Who might be his next target, now that she is beyond his reach?”

“I had not considered it in those terms until just now,” Elizabeth admitted. “I was so preoccupied with the shock of discovery, with my own mortification at having been so utterly deceived…”

“That is understandable,” Jane interrupted, rising to join her sister at the window. “But now that the initial shock has passed, we must consider our duty to others.”

Elizabeth turned to face her sister, studying Jane’s resolute expression. This was not the sister who had accepted with docile resignation that Charles Bingley had abandoned her without a word. This Jane had returned from London with her heart still bruised but her mind more firmly made up about the ways of the world.

“What would you have me do?” Elizabeth asked. “I cannot expose him publicly without evidence beyond my word against his.”

“Perhaps not publicly,” Jane agreed. “But there are those whose judgment might prevent harm. Our father, for one. Colonel Forster, for another. Mr. Wickham is under his command, after all.”

Elizabeth considered this. “I had not thought of Colonel Forster.”

“You need not reveal everything you know,” Jane pointed out. “Only enough to ensure that he is watched more carefully, particularly around young ladies of some fortune.”

The night air was cool against Elizabeth’s face as she leaned slightly toward the open window, considering Jane’s counsel. Her sister was right, of course. While discretion demanded she protect Miss Darcy’s identity, conscience could not permit her to remain entirely silent while Wickham continued to ingratiate himself with every family of means in the neighbourhood.

“I will think on it,” Elizabeth finally promised. “But you are right, Jane. I cannot in good conscience remain silent while he may be targeting another unsuspecting girl. Mary King had a fortunate escape indeed.”

“And who knows who might be next?” Jane added softly. “Especially if he will target girls as young as fifteen!”

“I think Miss Darcy’s dowry was his primary consideration, and the chance to revenge himself on her brother.” For all Wickham’s faults, Elizabeth did not suspect a preference for excessively young girls to be among them. His attempt on Miss Darcy had been calculated, aided by the traitorous companion Mrs. Younge, and likely his best and only chance, before Miss Darcy grew old enough to comprehend his perfidious nature and dismiss his efforts out of hand.

“Wickham has shown a particular preference for your company, Lizzy,” Jane pointed out.

Elizabeth recoiled at the suggestion. “Surely not. I have no fortune to recommend me; he would not waste his efforts.”

“But you have beauty and wit enough to make a man overlook financial considerations, at least until a better prospect presents itself,” Jane disagreed with her. “And you have been his most sympathetic audience.”

Elizabeth felt a rush of shame at the reminder of how eagerly she had accepted Wickham’s tale of woe regarding Mr. Darcy. How ready she had been to believe the worst of one man because his accuser had a charming smile and easy manners, while the other struggled to recommend himself to strangers! Her injured pride had played a part, she acknowledged to herself. She had wanted to believe every ill of Mr. Darcy.

It occurred to her then that Wickham might have observed something she had not, or heard gossip. Charlotte Lucas had remarked that Mr. Darcy looked at Elizabeth a great deal. If whisper of that had reached Wickham’s ears, that might be enough reason for him to pursue an interest in Elizabeth, solely to irritate Mr. Darcy.

“I shall have to consider carefully what to say and to whom,” Elizabeth said after a long pause. “I would not have Mr. Darcy’s private affairs made public, nor would I wish to be seen as a gossip or a meddler.”

“Your judgment has always been sound, Lizzy, even if in this instance it was temporarily led astray. I trust you will find the right path.” Jane squeezed her hand.

Elizabeth returned the pressure of Jane’s fingers, grateful for her sister’s confidence even as she doubted her own ability to navigate this delicate situation. She had been so certain of her perceptions, so confident in her ability to read character. Now, with her judgment proven so dramatically flawed, she found herself hesitant to act at all.

“I shall sleep on it,” she agreed, turning away from the window. “Though I doubt sleep will come easily with so much to consider.”

“It rarely does when conscience and discretion are at odds,” Jane observed with quiet wisdom. “But I have faith that you will reconcile them.”

As the sisters prepared for bed, Elizabeth found herself studying Jane with newfound appreciation. Her gentleness remained, but beneath it lay a strength of character that had been tested and tempered by disappointment. Elizabeth wondered if her own character might emerge similarly strengthened from the trials of Kent; less confident perhaps, but wiser for having been proven wrong.

Jane fell asleep quickly, but for several hours, Elizabeth lay awake considering not only what she might do about Wickham, but also how thoroughly her understanding of both her sister and herself had been altered by their respective journeys. Two months ago, she would have sworn she knew both perfectly; now she wondered if she truly knew either at all.

The prospect of an evening at Lucas Lodge had never before filled Elizabeth with such dread. Two nights after her return from Kent, she found herself obliged to attend what would once have been a pleasurable gathering, now transformed into an ordeal by the likely presence of Mr. Wickham.

“You are uncommonly quiet this evening, Lizzy,” observed her father from the opposite seat. “I had expected you to regale us with further tales of Mr. Collins’ marital felicity.”

“Forgive me, Papa,” Elizabeth replied with a forced smile. “I find myself rather fatigued from the journey still.”

Mr. Bennet merely nodded and returned to his contemplation of the passing scenery, dismissing Elizabeth if she did not intend to provide him entertainment. Beside him, Mrs. Bennet continued her whispered conference with Lydia and Kitty regarding the officers likely to be present, a conversation punctuated by giggles from her youngest daughters and occasional glances toward Elizabeth that she pretended not to notice.

Only Jane, seated at Elizabeth’s side, seemed to understand her discomfort. A gentle pressure on her hand communicated silent support, reminding Elizabeth of their conversation. She had not yet decided how to approach exposing Wickham’s character, but she knew with certainty that maintaining her previous friendly demeanour toward him would be beyond her powers of dissimulation.

The Lucas Lodge drawing room presented its usual aspect of conviviality when they entered, the militia officers’ coats forming splashes of red against the more subdued attire of the local gentry. Though she had rather desperately hoped he would be on duty and unable to attend, Elizabeth was disappointed to spot Mr. Wickham almost immediately. He stood in conversation with Colonel Forster and another officer, his posture relaxed and his expression animated as he related some tale that had his companions chuckling appreciatively.

“There is Mr. Wickham,” Lydia announced unnecessarily, her voice carrying more loudly than was proper. “I must speak with him about the upcoming officers’ ball!”

“I am certain Mr. Wickham has more pressing concerns than discussing balls with you, Lydia,” Elizabeth said, more sharply than she had intended.

Lydia’s pout was forestalled by the approach of Lady Lucas, who greeted Elizabeth with effusive warmth and immediately began asking about her visit to Hunsford and how she found Charlotte’s situation of marital felicity. Elizabeth answered with the expected politeness, all the while aware of Wickham’s presence across the room. She was certain she could feel his gaze upon her occasionally, though whenever she glanced in his direction, he appeared engrossed in his own conversations.

“And what a surprise that Mr. Darcy was in Kent! Maria has told me that you saw him nearly every day!” Lady Lucas said, and Elizabeth flinched slightly, glancing quickly at her mother, not too far away. She would as soon Mrs. Bennet never heard this intelligence, but she supposed it was too much to hope for.

“Mr. Darcy was visiting at Rosings, yes,” she confirmed, keeping her voice neutral. “Lady Catherine de Bourgh is his aunt, after all; apparently he visits her every Easter.”

“That must have been quite trying!” Lady Lucas said, oblivious to Elizabeth’s conflicted emotions. “He is such a proud and arrogant man; I struggled to speak with any politeness to him after hearing about all the terrible things he did to poor Mr. Wickham!”

Before Elizabeth could formulate a response that would neither confirm Lady Lucas’ assumption nor reveal her changed opinion, the final subject of their conversation approached. Wickham bowed to them all with his usual grace, his smile as charming as ever.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he greeted her, “how delightful to see you returned to Hertfordshire. Your presence has been much missed.”

“Mr. Wickham,” Elizabeth acknowledged, her tone flat and her smile thin. “I trust you have been well.”

“Tolerably so,” he replied, his eyes briefly showing confusion at her coolness before his smile reasserted itself. “Though Meryton society is much diminished when the brightest of its ornaments are away.”

The compliment, which once would have pleased her, now struck Elizabeth as hollow and practiced. She offered a tight smile in response but did not encourage further flattery.

They were joined then by Maria Lucas, Lieutenant Denny and another officer whom Elizabeth knew only slightly. The conversation turned to general matters and Elizabeth found herself grateful for the buffer these additional participants provided. She contributed just enough to avoid appearing rude, but kept her attention primarily on Wickham, noting with newfound clarity how he adjusted his manner to appeal to each person present, like a performer shifting costumes between scenes.

“A pity about Miss King being whisked away to Liverpool,” remarked Lieutenant Denny after a lull in the conversation. “Though perhaps it’s for the best, eh, Wickham? Leaves you free to pursue your real preference.” His eyes flickered meaningfully toward Elizabeth.

A hot flush of embarrassment and anger rose to Elizabeth’s cheeks. The implication that she might be the object of Wickham’s genuine affection – or worse, that she welcomed such attention – struck her as both presumptuous and mortifying in light of what she now knew.

“I believe Miss King is by far the more fortunate party in the arrangement,” she said coldly, meeting Wickham’s startled gaze with unflinching directness.

A uncomfortable silence followed her remark. Wickham himself seemed momentarily at a loss, his practiced ease deserting him before he recovered with a forced laugh.

“You are very severe tonight, Miss Elizabeth,” he observed, studying her with new wariness. “I had not thought a few weeks in Kent would render you so... altered.”

“Kent was most illuminating in many respects,” Elizabeth replied, maintaining her composure through sheer determination. “One meets such a variety of people and learns so much about character.”

“I understand you were much in Mr. Darcy’s company during your stay,” Wickham ventured, his tone carefully casual though his eyes were intent.

Elizabeth glanced at Maria, who blushed and looked away, confirming her suspicion that the girl had been the source of Wickham’s information. How much had Maria seen and heard? How much of Elizabeth’s activities in Kent had been related to the neighbourhood at large? The thought was discomfiting; Elizabeth did not care to be the object of gossip.

“Indeed I was,” Elizabeth acknowledged, lifting her chin slightly in defiance. “Both Mr. Darcy and his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, were visiting their aunt Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and we were invited several times to dine at Rosings.”

“Colonel Fitzwilliam?” Wickham repeated, the name clearly holding significance for him. His smile remained fixed, but Elizabeth detected a new tension in his bearing. “Mr. Darcy’s cousin? I am not well acquainted with the gentleman.”

“No?” Elizabeth allowed herself the smallest of smiles. “How surprising. He spoke as though he knew a great deal about you.”

She and Colonel Fitzwilliam had never spoken of Wickham; the falsehood was deliberate, a test to observe Wickham’s reaction. She was rewarded by a momentary widening of his eyes and a subtle pallor beneath his tan. For a man whose livelihood depended upon his charm, he was remarkably transparent once one knew what to look for.

“I cannot imagine what he might have had to say,” Wickham responded with carefully maintained nonchalance. “One can hardly remember every slight acquaintance.”

“Colonel Fitzwilliam seems to have an exceptional memory,” Elizabeth countered. “Particularly regarding matters of character.”

Wickham’s expression hardened almost imperceptibly before he reassumed his pleasant demeanour, though Elizabeth noted it now required visible effort. “You seem to have formed quite an attachment to Mr. Darcy and his family during your brief acquaintance,” he observed, his tone light but his eyes searching. “It is a marked change from your previous opinion.”

“I find my opinions are always subject to revision when presented with new information,” Elizabeth replied evenly, holding his gaze. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Wickham?”

Before he could respond, Maria interjected with innocent enthusiasm, “Mr. Wickham, is it true the militia will depart for Brighton in just a few weeks? Lydia says there is to be a grand ball before you leave!”

Wickham seized upon the change of subject with evident relief. “Indeed, Miss Lucas. Colonel Forster has confirmed our orders. We shall be in Brighton for the summer encampment.”

“How fortunate for Brighton society,” Elizabeth remarked. “And perhaps fortunate for us as well, as we need never meet again after your departure.”

The bluntness of her statement startled even herself, though she maintained an outward composure belied only by the rapid beating of her heart. Wickham stared at her, his practiced smile faltering as comprehension dawned in his eyes. Whatever he saw in her expression confirmed his suspicions – she knew something, perhaps everything, and was no longer the sympathetic audience he had once cultivated.

“Miss Elizabeth…” he began.

“I believe my sister is signalling for me,” Elizabeth interrupted, having no desire to hear whatever explanation or defence he might attempt to mount. “Good evening, Mr. Wickham.”

With a curtsy that was just correct enough to avoid outright rudeness, Elizabeth turned away, catching Jane’s concerned glance from across the room. She moved toward her sister with deliberate steps, acutely aware of Wickham’s gaze following her retreat. The encounter had left her trembling inwardly with suppressed emotion – anger at his deception, disgust at her own former blindness, and a strange, fierce satisfaction at having discomfited him, even slightly.

“Are you well, Lizzy?” Jane asked quietly when Elizabeth reached her side. “You look rather flushed.”

“I am perfectly well,” Elizabeth assured her. “I have merely discovered that maintaining civility in the face of known falsehood is more taxing than I anticipated.”

Jane’s eyes moved past Elizabeth to where Wickham stood watching them, his usual easy manner noticeably strained. “I see,” she murmured. “Perhaps we might step outside for a moment?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth agreed, grateful for her sister’s perception. “I find I could use a breath of fresh air.”

As they moved toward the doors leading to the garden, Elizabeth resisted the urge to look back at Wickham. Let him wonder exactly what she knew and how she had learned it. Let him feel, for once, the discomfort of being judged by someone who saw beyond the carefully constructed facade. It was a meagre justice compared to what he deserved, but there was satisfaction in it nonetheless.

The garden air proved a welcome respite after the stifling atmosphere of confrontation inside. Elizabeth drew several deep breaths, willing her racing pulse to slow as she and Jane stepped onto the path that wound between Sir William’s prized rosebushes. The evening was fine, stars pricking the darkening sky above while the last glow of sunset lingered on the horizon. The tranquillity seemed at odds with the tumult in Elizabeth’s mind, where the encounter with Wickham continued to replay itself with uncomfortable clarity.

“I believe you conducted yourself admirably,” Jane said softly, as though reading her thoughts. “Though I confess I have never seen you so severe with anyone before.”

“Severity seems the least he deserves,” Elizabeth replied, her voice low to prevent it carrying to the open windows of the drawing room. “We must think of some way to let Colonel Forster know…”

She broke off as the sound of laughter drifted along the path. Female laughter, one voice higher and more animated than the other. Elizabeth recognised Lydia’s distinctive giggle with immediate concern.

“Come, let us walk this way,” she suggested to Jane, guiding her sister toward the sound. “I would prefer to know what mischief Lydia is planning rather than be surprised by it later.”

They had not gone more than a dozen steps when they came upon Lydia and Mrs. Forster, Colonel Forster’s young wife, engaged in animated conversation on a stone bench beneath an elm tree. Mrs. Forster, barely older than Lydia herself, was speaking with conspiratorial enthusiasm.

“… shall have such splendid fun in Brighton! The officers will be on parade every morning, of course, but the afternoons will be entirely our own. There are assemblies three times a week, and the sea bathing is said to be quite invigorating.”

“Oh, it sounds heavenly!” Lydia exclaimed, clasping her hands. “I shall need at least a dozen new gowns, and perhaps a bathing-dress, though Mama says the expense…”

“I am certain we can contrive something,” Mrs. Forster assured her with the confident air of one who has not yet learned to manage a household budget. “After all, what good is being the colonel’s wife if I cannot invite my particular friend to stay?”

Elizabeth felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. Lydia in Brighton, surrounded by officers, with only the supervision of a woman barely older than herself, and clearly no more sensible? It was a recipe for disaster under ordinary circumstances; with Wickham among the militia, it became unthinkable.

“Good evening, Mrs. Forster, Lydia,” Elizabeth said, stepping forward into their view, Jane at her heels.

Lydia started guiltily, then recovered with a defiant toss of her head. “Lizzy! Jane! Mrs. Forster has invited me to Brighton for the summer as her particular friend! Is that not the most wonderful thing you’ve ever heard?”

Mrs. Forster smiled, though her expression faltered slightly at Elizabeth’s serious countenance. “Good evening, Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth. Yes, I have just been telling Lydia about the delights of Brighton. The colonel and I would be pleased to have her company during our stay.”

Elizabeth chose her words with care, conscious of the need to reject the invitation without giving offense to Mrs. Forster, whose only fault lay in her youth and inexperience.

“How very kind of you, Mrs. Forster,” she began with a smile she hoped appeared genuine. “But I’m afraid there can be no question of Lydia accompanying you to Brighton, given her youth. She is but fifteen, you know.”

Lydia flushed with rage, her mouth opening and closing. She appeared too shocked by Elizabeth’s blunt rejection of Mrs. Forster’s offer to speak, though Elizabeth doubted the silence would last long.

“Oh, but that is precisely why I wish her to come,” Mrs. Forster interjected, failing to perceive Elizabeth’s real concerns. “Lydia is just my age, and the colonel says I should have a companion, and who better than my dear friend? We shall look after each other famously.”

Elizabeth doubted very much that either young woman was equipped to look after herself, let alone another. She exchanged a brief glance with Jane, finding solidarity in her sister’s concerned expression.

“It is a generous offer,” Jane added diplomatically, “but perhaps one better suited to a year or two hence, when Lydia is a bit older.”

“It is not your decision!” Lydia declared, standing abruptly from the bench. Her voice rose to a pitch that threatened to attract attention from the house. “It is for Papa to decide, and he will say yes. I know he will!”

“You are quite right that it is Papa’s decision,” Elizabeth agreed, maintaining her composure in the face of Lydia’s petulance. “And I would ask you to consider, sister, whom Papa is more likely to heed in this matter – you or me?”

The reminder of Mr. Bennet’s well-known preference for his second daughter struck home. Lydia’s face contorted with frustrated rage as she realised the likely outcome of any appeal to their father, if Elizabeth counselled against it.

“You are hateful!” she cried, and to Elizabeth’s mortification, actually stamped her foot. “You are determined to ruin everything!”

Mrs. Forster looked uncomfortable, clearly unprepared for this display of familial discord. Elizabeth seized the opportunity to address her directly, while Lydia continued to sulk.

“Please forgive my sister’s poor manners, Mrs. Forster,” she said with genuine regret. “She is, as you see, still very young in her ways, which is precisely why a journey to Brighton would be inappropriate at present. Your generous invitation is much appreciated, I assure you.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Forster murmured, rising from the bench with evident relief. “I meant no harm in suggesting it. My husband did say I should consult with your parents before extending a formal invitation.”

“A wise suggestion from the colonel,” Elizabeth agreed with a smile.

As Mrs. Forster nodded and made her escape back toward the house, Elizabeth became aware of being observed. Glancing toward the terrace, she caught sight of Wickham, watching their exchange with evident interest. Their eyes met briefly before Elizabeth deliberately turned away, refusing to acknowledge him.

“Come, Lydia,” she said firmly. “We are returning to the house now.”

“I hate you,” Lydia muttered, but fell into step beside Jane as they walked back toward the drawing room, her lower lip protruding in a pout that would have been comical in a child half her age.

Elizabeth followed a few paces behind, her mind working rapidly. Wickham observing their conversation was troubling. Had he deliberately followed her outside?

Somehow, the rest of the evening passed by, though it seemed interminable to Elizabeth. Wickham kept his distance, and Lydia did not make a spectacle of herself, which was probably the best that could be hoped for, though Elizabeth several times saw Lydia whispering with her friends while shooting rage-filled glances in Elizabeth’s direction. Eventually, the carriage was called for and the Bennets made their farewells.

In the carriage, Lydia pressed herself against the far corner, as distant from Elizabeth as the confined space would allow. Her face was turned resolutely toward the window, though the darkness outside offered little to see. Kitty, sensing her favourite sister’s mood, attempted to draw Lydia into whispered conversation, but was rebuffed with a sharp word that left Kitty looking hurt and confused.

Mr. Bennet observed this byplay with a raised eyebrow. “It seems one of my daughters has discovered that the world does not revolve around her wishes,” he remarked dryly. “A valuable lesson, though evidently an unpleasant one.”

“Mr. Bennet, how can you tease the poor child so?” Mrs. Bennet protested. “Lydia, my love, tell Mama what has distressed you so.”

“Ask Lizzy,” Lydia muttered venomously. “She has appointed herself guardian of my happiness.”

All eyes turned to Elizabeth. “We will discuss it tomorrow, Papa, if you please,” she said quietly. “It is a matter that requires some explanation.”

Mr. Bennet studied her with interest before nodding his agreement. Something in Elizabeth’s expression must have convinced him of the seriousness of the matter, for he did not press her further, merely saying, “Very well, Lizzy. Tomorrow it shall be.”

As the carriage rattled homeward through the darkened countryside, Elizabeth considered the delicate conversation she must have with her father tomorrow. Perhaps this would be an opportune time to reveal some of what she knew of Wickham’s character, and ask his assistance in sharing the intelligence with Colonel Forster?

Yet even as she planned her approach, Elizabeth felt a surprising sense of purpose. A fortnight ago, she might have dismissed Lydia’s behaviour as merely tiresome; now, with her understanding of the world forever altered by Mr. Darcy’s revelations, she perceived genuine danger in her sister’s unguarded nature. Perhaps this newfound clarity was the first positive consequence of the painful education she had received at Hunsford.

Across from her, Lydia continued to sulk, resentment radiating from her rigid posture. Let her sulk , Elizabeth thought with uncharacteristic firmness. Better a sulking sister than a ruined one. She had failed to recognise Wickham’s true nature until it was revealed to her by Mr. Darcy; she would not fail to protect her family now that she understood the threat he posed.

As Longbourn came into view, its windows glowing with welcoming light against the night, Elizabeth made a silent promise to herself: whatever else might come of her disastrous visit to Kent, she would ensure that George Wickham would have no opportunity to work his particular brand of charm on any of the Bennet sisters ever again.